


A Promise in the Storm

by Ramzes



Series: Through the Eyes of Others [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 20:44:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8548504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ramzes/pseuds/Ramzes
Summary: Princess Rhaelle Targaryen honoured her father's word and wed Ormund Baratheon, the young lord of Storm's End. Still, her life there was not devoid of storms.





	

 It looked that this time, King Aegon and his queen had learned from the past, so when upon Ormund's return to Storm's End five six months of absence to see the dragon banners flying from the towers, he only thought, _Rhaelle must be furious_. He did not doubt that whomever had arrived in his absence had not been invited. In the wake of the accident that had taken their second child from them two months before the birth, Rhaelle had become estranged from him, even. She certainly wouldn't have told her mother or sister to come for the upcoming birth. Another demonstration meant to fool the realm that the dragons were a tight knit family? No, that was what Rhaelle would have said. He had always tried to soothe this ever burning anger but now, she would not let him.

A harsh blow of winter wind hit him in the face as he dismounted. Around him, hills of snow had gathered since the last light of the sun, to be cleared away tomorrow. He lead the way to the doors, longing for a fire and some hot food.

A burst of light blinded him. Rhaelle stood at the door, wrapped in dark furs, as a dutiful lady wife should, and his steps quickened. He did not want to keep her in the cold.

Her hand was a small icicle against his lips. He led her inside and felt a twinge of sadness but not surprise when she freed her hand as soon as possible. Steffon, though, was beside himself with joy when he saw him. "Father!" he yelled and ran to him before Rhaelle could stop him and say that it wasn't the way to greet his father after such a long absence.

Ormund grabbed him and threw him in the air, ridiculously happy to be finally met with joy.

"Who has come, Rhaelle?" he asked as they made their way to the great hall.

"My mother," she replied briefly, her mouth tightening for the briefest of moments.

In the great hall, a merry crowd looked at him as he made his way to the dais. To his tired eyes, it looked like Queen Betha had brought half the court here. He kissed her hand and spoke all the formalities necessary but he couldn't help but notice that despite the smiling mouth, her eyes examined him with more focus than ever before. Had Rhaelle complained to her mother? No, a look at the way his wife sat, as gracious and ladylike as she ought to be in the Queen's presence ruled this possibility out.

It felt odd to watch the merry hall when all he felt was exhaustion and a wish to having never had returned. The Queen's dark hair brought out unpleasant memories of Duncan who had indirectly caused Jocelyn's death and had abandoned her ever so humiliatingly; looking at Rhaelle brought out the memory of that stupid quarrel about a year ago when he had caught her by the shoulders and she, driven to fury, had shaken him off with her entire body. The momentum of her jerk had been strong enough to send her reeling on the floor. Her pains had started the very next day. They had lost their son over something so foolish that he didn't even remember what it had been, and that loss stood like a wall between them. Even the upcoming birth of their third had not managed to bring them closer.

"What are you going to name her?" Betha asked as Ormund took bites of his venison without hunger now but not stopping because if he stopped, he'd have to converse.

"Jocelyn," Rhaelle replied immediately and her mother paled a little. "She was my first friend here," she went on casually. "When I was still a stranger."

"That's lovely," the Queen managed but Ormund only had eyes for Rhaelle who didn't look at him even as she said that. His eyes went over the Queen's people at their table. Two older men, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard – did Aegon think that they were going to kill his Queen, or what? – and a young maid who was nodding at what his castellan was telling her and laughing.

Someone's look made him turn his head. Rhaelle was looking at him, her eyes burning in cold purple fire.

"I was hoping that…" his mother sighed but naturally, she didn't finish, not in front of everyone.

Ormund had also hoped that his absence as he toured in his domain would take some of the tension off. Perhaps even Rhaelle had. But that hadn't happened and he was desperately sorry for her. He was well aware that she had placed all her hopes and trust in him many years ago. Now, she must be feeling as if she truly had nothing. But when he reached for her hand under the table, she didn't squeeze back. "I am tired," she only said in a voice that was final. Against his will, his eyes were drawn to the laughing girl again as they left.

Three days later, her aunt Rhae arrived from Starfall and Ormund was as surprised as Betha, although not his mother. "What is she doing here?" the Queen asked as the drawing bridge was lowered for Lady Dayne.

"I wanted her to be with me at my time," Rhaelle said and although Betha didn't say anything, for a moment she looked downcast. When she had asked her goodsister to be like a mother to her child, sent so far away at eight, she hadn't meant it like this!

Rhaelle was brought to her bed two weeks after his return and as he paced down the halls trying to chase away the memories of that last guilty, terrible waiting, a storm started gathering over the sea, a storm that he could say would rage for days without a break. But when his daughter was placed in his arms, it felt like he had seen the sun.

The scarlet death came the very next morning, with his castellan sporting the bright spots first.

"With so many people, it can spread like a fire," the white-haired maester of Storm's End warned but all Ormund could see were Rhaelle and the children. His mother. His brother… The scarlet fever claimed the lives of so many children – Jocelyn was not even a day old! Rhaelle was still exhausted, so she was a much easier prey than usual…

"Close the chambers off," he ordered his steward without delay. "Lady Baratheon's first… and Steffon's. The Queen and her people should be kept apart from everyone else as well."

The Seven help him if she died under his roof! He could well imagine the rumours that would abound.

"I don't want people getting close to each other anyway," he went on.

"My lord, what about Lady Margrat?"

Ormund hesitated. Even now, as the Lord of the Stormlands, it didn't feel right to place restrictions on his mother. "She is free to do as she likes. Still, I'd prefer it if she doesn't leave her chambers. What?" he asked sharply, listening to the storm raging outside and willing for it to stop. "What is it?"

"My throat hurts," the man said slowly.

Before the week was over, half of Storm's End had been overtaken by the disease. Sometimes, Ormund felt as if he had never seen a face that was not covered in bright red spots, with burning cheeks and furred throats. All the windows that he could see were thrown wide open because people were too hot and the storm blew snow and rain inside. Too often, dark forms went out into the blizzard carrying dead bodies out of the castle to bury them into flat graves – as deep as the frozen ground would allow. Maester Fransen would have preferred to have them burned but there was no way they could make pyres in the storm.

Two times a day, he went before Rhaelle's door and then Steffon and took brief comfort in hearing that they were fine. For now.

Until one day, Rhaelle wasn't.

"Childbed fever?" he asked, incredulous, when Maester Fransen arrived at his chambers after an urgent summon. "Six days later, she is suffering from childbed fever?"

"It can happen," the maester said, looking down. In the dim light the day could now offer them, his face was grey with weariness, his eyes red with lack of sleep. "Of course, I cannot be sure without having examined her but…"

_But Rhaelle is surrounded by midwives and women who have given birth themselves,_ Ormund thought despairingly. _They would know. And he didn't dare send Maester Fransen there._

"Who were you with when I summoned you?" he asked, fury rising all of a sudden. He had waited for almost an _hour_ before the man had graced his chambers with his presence!

"Your lady mother," the maester said and Ormund made a step back, horrified.

"There is another problem," the man went on. "The Queen has heard that her daughter is ill. She demands to be let out to take care of Lady Baratheon…"

"Very kind of her," Ormund spat. "She's staying where she is. I am not letting her walk these illness-ridden halls and perhaps bring the fever to Rhaelle. And Rhaelle doesn't need her. She has the care of her women, her aunt's comfort…"

He was about to say that Rhaelle didn't want her mother but something made him stop. In this day devoid of light and hope, it felt like a bad omen for him. He didn't even know if it was his own mother or his newborn daughter that he was thinking about. But saying it would bring bad luck. He just knew it.

The next three days were something that he never wanted to experience again, did not even want to remember. He spent it pacing between the rooms of his mother and brother and Rhaelle's chambers. All three of them were getting worse. His brother was the first one to succumb, as the scarlet death claimed young people more often than aged ones, and Ormund dug the grave himself, each push of the shovel pouring his grief and despair into the frozen land. When they lowered the coffin, he heard the men whisper in awe just how deep the grave was.

His mother followed the same night, after a brief rally that had given them hopes that she'd pull through, and the last fistfuls of frozen earth for this grave Ormund dug with his bare hands because his aching arms could no longer hold the shovel and the back hole in earth didn't look deep enough, and somehow it felt disrespectful to place the coffin in and then pull it back to deepen the grave. His nails, broken to the core, ached for days afterwards but that was nothing compared to the pain and disbelief raging in him. Now, he truly had no one. Just the children and Rhaelle who was, miraculously, hanging to life on a thread that the voices behind her door told him was so very thin…

And then, one day Maester Fransen told him that they had not had any new cases of the ailment in five days. Three days later, he took his first bath in weeks and as great a relief as the hot water was, it melted something within him and now, for the first time he truly felt the enormity of his loss. He stayed in the tub until the water grew so cold that he felt chills racing down his body, and then stayed some more as outside, the storm kept howling.

The first place he headed for when he put some clothes on was Steffon's room, opened for the first time in so many days. His son was sleeping, curled up on his side under his blankets. Ormund imagined the look in his eyes when he woke up to find out that he could now leave, and smiled, as faintly as it was.

Rhaelle was awake when he entered, and he tried to disguise his shock at how pale and frail she looked. She had gone… smaller. Shorter. Her magnificent silver hair was now gone, for it had kept sweating and making her uncomfortable in her fever. The fingers lying on the thick cover were so thin that he imagined her knuckles would rattle when she moved.

He didn't know what she saw because he hadn't looked in the mirror for many weeks but in her eyes, he saw the same sad wonder filling his own heart. As they stared at each other, she in her bed, he at the door, something in the air shifted, shivered, went away. A small ghost that had never come to live finally disappeared. He felt as if he were looking at her for the first time since that horrible day a year ago.

He crossed the room. Leaned over the bed. She reached over and touched the moisture glistening on his eyelashes, under eyelids hard from weeping, then kissed it away.

"Don't leave me," he said, fear suddenly claiming him once again at seeing her close, this small and exhausted.

"Don't betray me," she replied, her voice as fiercely intense as when she talked about her family unguardedly. In many ways, they were the embodiment of a great lord and his princess. The ones who had done their duty, kept their word, and yet that was something that Rhaelle wanted, as unusual as it was for a marriage of highborn. She wanted him for herself. All of him. In this, her fire burned as brightly as it did in any of her siblings who had found their torches outside of their father's word.

"I won't," he said and she smiled.

"Then I won't either."

* * *

 

**The End**

 


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